


The Road To Hell

by TarnishedArmour



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A/U, F/M, caveat lector
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9566780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedArmour/pseuds/TarnishedArmour
Summary: A Marriage Law has passed.  Hermione feels and overwhelming desire in response - the desire to kill.  Enter Severus Snape...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally beta'd by AuntieL...love ya, Auntie!
> 
> I ABSOLUTELY **_WILL NOT_** WARN ABOUT CONTENT. No trigger warnings, no kink warnings, nothing. 
> 
> This is written for adults. Period. If you cannot adult while reading, go child somewhere else, maybe with a T or G rating.
> 
> Just so ya know going forward.

Hermione stared at the letter in her hand. The Ministry of Magic, in its inevitable, inimitable, well-meaning-but-utterly-idiotic fashion, had just passed a law requiring every adult pureblood or half-blood to marry a suitable muggleborn or half-blood.

Wizards got to make the offers, witches to choose from those who offered.

Hermione was so angry that she could not process words to say, spells to cast, or even a physical reaction. She was fortunate that this letter had been delivered during the Christmas break, when no one was in Gryffindor Tower, not even Harry. No one would hear the howl of pure rage that tore from her throat. No one would witness the spontaneous combustion of the missive from the Ministry. No one would ever know that every fiber in her being was concentrated on one goal: Destruction. For this, for the final straw, she would become everything she had feared for six and a half years.

With three paragraphs, the Light was in danger of losing forever to the Dark the greatest hope and support of their precious Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry could go to Grimmauld Place, but Hermione had no home outside of the castle walls, not any longer. She was too valuable to risk to transport. She held the answer to Voldemort's defeat. If moving her to Gringotts to be stashed in the deepest, dragon-guarded vaults until the end of the war were possible, the Order and Dumbledore may well have done so. As it was, she was alone, quite alone, with none but House-Elves and the occasional, brief glance of Snape for company.

It was the last that brought her back to herself. Snape. Dark. Cruel. Vengeful. Angry. Despised.

Snape could be her only hope.

Hermione walked to the portrait hole, grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door - the House-Elves turned down the heating wards while the students were gone to preserve magic and strengthen the defenses - and left the Tower ten minutes after curfew, which was in effect all year, even during breaks.

She didn't care.

When facing life without a chance of parole, as the saying went, it was amazing what didn't matter any longer. Stupid rules. Stupid wizards. Stupid men.

Stupid war.

She didn't find it strange that she was walking down to the dungeons in search of a wizard, by necessity male, who was a professor enforcing rules, fighting his part of the war with such skill that the Dark Lord never doubted his loyalty, no matter the failures, the setbacks, and the Death Eaters that never returned. Some things simply were. Like Snape.

Snape was not a nice professor. He was not kind. He didn't accept late or sloppy work. He did not gladly tolerate, well, anyone or anything outside of his orderly personal lab willingly, at any time. He never suffered fools, though he did ensure fools suffered.

He was the perfect man for her to marry. They would wed, and Hermione... Hermione would exact her revenge. If he refused, she had another option. She would kill herself. She would be the Angel of Death or his Offering, but she would never, ever comply. Not with this.

"Miss Granger," the words hissed out of the dark corridor on iced-silk menace. "It is after curfew." 

Ordinarily, the sound of his voice coming from the shadows was enough. Tonight... was no ordinary night. Hermione simply turned to face him. She could barely make out his eyes in the dark.

"I want them dead," she said, her voice flat, her eyes void of emotion as she looked him in the eye. Soon enough he would understand that it wasn't emotion missing from her eyes. She was, in this moment, utterly inhuman.

"Who?" he asked, surprised by the simple statement in ways he never believed he could be, not from this know-it-all. She ignored the question.

"Have you received any owls this evening?" she replied instead.

"Of course. I am a half-blood bachelor." His voice was sardonic. He smirked at her. "Did you come down to my dungeons to find a husband, Miss Granger?" It was time to move back to the realm he knew so well. He could get her to back down. To go back to her tower. To fucking behave without Potter and Weasley around.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked, suddenly, acknowledging his portion of the conversation.

"Had I not wished to know, I would not have asked the question, silly girl." Now he was irritated. 

She tipped her head to the side, and answered his first question. "I want them dead. Any and every person involved in producing and passing the Marriage Law."

Then Snape realized the danger, the allure of her proposition. So much could be done by destroying the idiots that kept the Order, the War from being recognized and fought properly. So much could be done with a young woman like Hermione - from spying to finally defeating the Resurrected Evil.

Familiarity with the Dark, the power it brought, brought Severus Snape low twenty years before, when he had joined the Death Eaters and, quite possibly, surrendered his soul with what existed of his morals. His eyes narrowed to slits. His voice turned to a whisper, a thread of deep tones vibrating from his chest. His power pulsed in him, in the breath that carried his words. Together, they could cast something to destroy all of the island they called home. To destroy mere witches and wizards...that would be...easy.

Snape nodded. "Tonight. The ceremony, the bedding. Now."

Hermione smiled at him, teeth concealed by lips that thinned at the corners, turning up toward eyes still devoid of the soul that radiated life from within her. All he could see were dark eyes, cold with power and something else. Something unexpected.

Not for the first time, he realized what a truly formidable witch she was in her own right. For the first time, he felt a shimmering bolt of fear shoot from the top of his spine to his groin in her presence.

Oh, she was beautiful in her Darkness.

Now, she would be his. Forever.

Hermione said nothing as Snape ordered her to follow him. She turned, followed. She walked to a bare patch of wall, listened as he murmured to the bricks themselves, and trailed behind him into the dark rooms beyond.

**************

"Before we bind ourselves in magic," Snape said, watching her reactions carefully, "I must know why you refuse to play by the rules of the Ministry. Oh, I know all about your affection for rules Miss Granger," he added, his voice turning to iced silk again, "but to make a rash decision for the purposes of revenge... rarely works out the way we choose." He didn't touch his arm, but she understood. She was one of the few he'd met that didn't need a muggle billboard to Understand. In this instance, it was a relief.

"The Headmaster needs to take better care of his toys," she said, waving her wand at the fireplace she finally located. The dark room may have been familiar to him, but, to her, it was a dark cavern filled with irregularly-shaped, slightly darker lumps scattered randomly about.

"Ah."

"Especially those broken before he ever got to play with them," she continued, ignoring - or not hearing - his response. She watched the flames dance as she spoke. "I'm not a virgin. From the time I was seven, I was molested by... someone who knew my parents well. When I complained to them, they did not believe me. The first time I ever used my magic, the day I found out I was a witch, I was nine. He is still in a coma. I was safe here. Safe in ways that the Ministry couldn't take away." She turned to Snape. "I will not be raped by Ministry decree."

Snape snorted. "So you choose to marry me."

"I choose to marry a man who will never petition for my hand, no matter how fucking miserable a certain doddering arsehole makes him," she responded, no heat in her voice. "Since you agreed, since no offer was technically made, no one will know except for us. Nothing will be sent to the Ministry to record, object to, or otherwise use against us. We will be bound by magic, and I will be safe from them and their prying spells."

Snape nodded. "While lacking in logic, there is an elegance to your solution." The Ministry would not begin to monitor unmarried magical-folk of adult age for twenty-four hours. The accepted forms of marriage now tended to take time to plan and carry out. The old rituals, the ways of binding magic-to-magic, had fallen out of favour several centuries before. The old ways were not as guest-friendly or fun as the new forms, the safe forms. "Understand this: Once you are my wife, I will not leave you alone. I will have you in my bed. If you cannot accept that, leave now."

"I'm not afraid of sex," she replied. "I've let no one touch me since I was nine, but not from fear." She did not face him as her voice dropped. She hissed to him, no threat in her voice. "Understand this: If I say no and you rape me, you will beg for death. You will not die."

The bolt of silver fear pulsed down his back again. Snape was silent for a long minute. She had not had to threaten him. Words so simple were never threats. They were promises. All he knew of Hermione returned to him then. Every promise he had heard she had made... she kept. She would be his, but not his victim. It was enough. "Take my hand."

Hermione finally looked over at him. Her eyes were too calm, but she was fully aware. It was enough. She took his hand.

Snape spoke first. "By magic, I am bound to you, husband to wife." He said nothing more. The moment spun between them, his magic reaching out to her, a cold, silver sun fading into dark corners and night.

"By magic, I am bound to you, wife to husband," Hermione repeated. Her magic reached to him, a crimson sea shot through with veins of gold and black and heat.

So simple, but the most damning Dark spells always were. There was no escape from one another now.

Snape dropped one of her hands and guided her to his bedroom. Like the rest of his rooms, it was traversed through his familiarity and ability to lead her with tiny twitches of his hand. The darkness was a relief for her.

When her legs bumped against the bed, she stopped. Without speaking, she began to undress. What came next was no mystery. She only hoped Snape's rutting would be quick.

Snape could see her, feel her undressing. He did the same. When she climbed up on the bed, foregoing any gentle touches or attempted stimulation, he smiled. No, she would not be getting a rapid fuck in his bed. He would have her willing, at least, to comply with his most basic demands. The first of those was at least a modicum of arousal, without the assistance of potions, on her part. Until he scented her desire coating her cunt and preparing her for him, he could not take her. There was no moral question involved. He was uninterested in an unwilling woman of any kind. There would be no sex without her participation.

In his classroom, he ensured instructions were given at least three times, no matter how irritating it was to repeat information. In his bed, he would not instruct. He would not ask. He would not take.

In his bed, he would seduce. By the end, his wife would learn the difference between a rutting child molester and a husband.

He wasn't particularly interested in her desire to learn, or her emotional state. He wasn't interested in her, not as a wife. As a witch, as a warrior...she was fascinating.

Hermione lay still on the bed, memories long since filed away under ‘useless snivelling about what can't be changed' and dismissed into their proper irrelevancy were still locked firmly away. Now that the truth was out, at least to one person in the wizarding world, she was free of the past. Severus Snape would have her body with her consent, and she didn't care. Not for him as a husband. Not for sexual pleasure. As a wizard, as a warrior...he was everything she admired. She wasn't particularly interested in his emotional state, nor his desire to fuck her on a regular basis. That, she could ascribe to convenience. Perhaps to magic.

And soon, she would get to curse the entire Ministry, slowly destroying those who would destroy her first. Compared to the well-meaning incompetents in the Ministry, Voldemort was hardly a threat.

Hands, lips, touched her skin. She noted their positions, hands at shoulder and abdomen, lips at neck, and sighed.

"Do you require anything in particular from me?" she asked Snape, her voice harsh in the darkness. She lowered her volume and returned to her whispers. "I've read several sex books. There are several positions-"

"I require silence and your cunt to be hot and wet." The voice by her ear made her shiver. Some part of her mind noted that the wet would not be much of a problem if he stayed so close and spoke into her ear for much longer. "For now, the standard position will be sufficient." His hissed esses made her eyelids flutter closed. "Later, I will taste you, put you against the walls of the corridors, bend you over my desk, have you on your hands and knees...later, you will wrap that inconvenient mouth around my cock, take it down your throat, and thank me for it." She shivered at that. "Later, I will bind you to my bedroom wall and let you scream for more, let you beg for orgasm until you come so hard you forget how to breathe. Later, you will know without asking what I want and how and when." His lips brushed her ear. "But tonight," he paused and scented her skin. She was wet. She wanted. "Tonight I have what I want."

The hands resting on her abdomen and neck, moved. He was shifting over her. Hermione spread her legs. She felt the cool air briefly on her wet skin, and wanted to be warm again. The cold was unwelcome - and then he was sliding between her legs, which spread farther apart to allow his hips between her thighs, and she could feel his heat and he was there at her entrance and then he was sliding inside her. There was some discomfort from years without being used, without being filled so deep and full with a thick, heavy cock, but there was none of the pain she had remembered so well. Then again, she knew there would be no pain. She was made for a man to move inside her now. Years ago, she hadn't been.

Without words, without more than some uneven breathing because he did feel nice inside her, she slid her arms around his waist, raised her calves to press against his side. She felt his smile against her shoulder, hissed as he bit and began to move.

Not hard, not fast. Not slow, not gentle. He was taking his pleasure in her body. It didn't hurt. She didn't feel strange. She didn't feel much of anything, think much of anything, until he lifted from over her and hooked his arms under her knees. He slid out, then back in, and she felt stretched around him, her legs too wide, his cock too big, too long. He leaned down again, folding her, forcing her legs back and her hips up.

He smiled as her arms wrapped around his shoulders, under his arms. She was holding on to him now for a different reason. With her legs this wide, her hips high and tilted up for him, her folds open wide for his body to press against her clit, to rub long and deep against her sensitive nerves, she began to pant softly.

Hermione felt something inside that made her breath catch. It felt good. Deep. He felt good. Deep. Pressing her wide. Pressing down and in and wide and deep and she was moaning softly now.

He laughed, bit her shoulder. He didn't speed up. He didn't slow down. He took his time, liking the way she pulsed for him now, a wet, warm glove gripping him in ways she had read about, but never knew. He slid his arms under her, one grasping the hair at the base of her skull, pulling her head back just enough for her to whimper and open her hips for him even more. It was close enough to surrender for him to press his chest against her breasts, to rise up on his knees, changing the angle again.

He never lasted long like this. He wanted her to like him fucking her, to like the way he felt inside. If she liked the way he felt, he could fuck her for hours - hard, soft, slow, fast, any position he wanted for as long as he wanted. He wanted her to like it, the press of his body against hers, the bands of his arms holding her in place. He wanted her to like it and want it. So far, it seemed she did.

But she couldn't like it too much. He wouldn't let her come for months, yet. He couldn't. The day she came, he would be helpless. He would meet her needs, be undone by her grasping pussy pulsing around him. He would lose control of fucking her and she would begin fucking him and he wanted to make this last. He took his time, keeping up the steady, marathon pace for so long that he felt her starting to respond deep inside. She shivered and sometimes clamped around him. His eyes closed and he counted backward from seventy-nine in threes, and it wasn't enough.

She felt so damned good.

He felt so damned good.

He was deep and filled her and rubbed her and his chest pressed against hers and his lips were at her shoulder and her neck and there was something tingly and pleasant starting to warm up in her belly. She shivered as he sped up, taking some of that pleasant warmth with him, growing a little numb as he began to fuck her in earnest. He tugged at her hair and she felt her body relax even more, her legs so high and wide and so far apart that her hips felt wider, her spine curled up and lifted her hips up as he thrust in, meeting him. Sharp bite on her shoulder - she whimpered and stayed still. Felt good. Liked him inside. But there was more. Wanted more. He gave her more, shifting his knees, pulling her hips up, her lower back off the bed. He fucked her down, legs so wide she wondered if they would ever close again and it felt good and he was bumping something that hurt inside and he was rubbing something that felt good inside and she could feel him sweating on her and smell him and feel his hand tighten on her hair and his arm press her even harder against him and it was hard to breathe and then he started to move faster and harder, rough snarls forced out of him with each deep, sharp push into her. This felt familiar, but better than ever before. This felt good, hard, fast, and helpless.

A minute of bruising thrusts, so hard she wanted to cry, but so deep and full and hurt and nice and she wanted him to move harder and she bit his shoulder and he roared as his body convulsed and he moved harder and then stopped and was still.

She hurt now. Her legs ached, her hips and back were sore and stiff, her cunt was bruised, her inner thighs were bruised, her breasts were sore from the pressure of his chest and the bite on her shoulder throbbed in time with her heartbeat and she was having trouble breathing. She felt perfect.

He felt perfect. She was folded and immobile under him, panting, her cunt pulsing around him, whimpering softly in his ear, and she wasn't moving because she didn't want him to leave her body and he felt himself begin to soften and he stayed inside her because he could feel her body hugging him, pulling on him, and he almost forgot how to breathe and the bite on his shoulder throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

Slowly, when he was sliding out of her even in that balls-deep position, the one that could keep him inside her for hours before she learned to come and after he'd had her for several nights, he let her legs and back rest, coming back down to the bed. He didn't move from over her. He didn't move his arms from around her. He would never let his witch go.

She would never let her wizard go. He was over her and surrounding her and she hurt and she was safe and no one could touch her except him and he would never let anyone touch her and she could feel him on her and around her and her legs were aching and her back was finally on the bed again and she didn't want him ever to move off of her and she was still wet and dripping and warm inside and he was just outside her and she was hollow now.

He was empty now. Spent it all on this first round. He would not take her again until they woke, before breakfast. When she was aching to go to the loo and would whimper with every stroke because she hurt and felt good and wanted him to fuck her until they died of exhaustion.

Eyes closing, content with the feel of one another, Hermione sighed under Severus, knowing he would fuck her again soon, and it would hurt and feel good and she would ache and cry before he was done, and there would be frustration and pleasure and pain and bruising and she would want it later and more and again and she did want it again now more than she understood wanting it.

Severus and Hermione. Granger and Snape. Husband and wife. Witch and wizard. Man and woman. Partners in the dark and the Dark.

In the dark, they found Peace. In War, they would become pure Light. She would not resist Him, he would not force Her. Him and Her. Hermione and Severus.

The Dark marriage was done. Their magic was bound together.

And it was simple and powerful and painful and unethical and immoral and wrong and all hell would break loose.

Neither had ever known something so pure and good and Right.

The magic slept with them.

Waiting.

Wanting.

******************

Hemione woke to the feel of Severus moving inside her, slowly pressing in. She was wet again, but she didn't remember feeling anything to get her that way.

"What time is it?" she asked in the darkness.

"Dawn," he said, sliding out of her and pushing back in.

"Let me up," she said, arms still wrapped around him.

"No." He lifted up and pushed her legs up, folding her again. Hermione sighed and he smiled against her shoulder. "You can take it," he said.

Hermione felt his fingers in her hair, tightening. She sighed again, felt her hips tilt up and spread for him.

"Yes," she sighed. "Feels good." She felt him shove hard into her, winced. "Hurts, too."

"Good," he murmured, biting her shoulder softly.

He didn't start fucking her hard and fast, trying to come, until she was crying. She spread her legs wider and held him so hard that her breasts ached from feeling his bony chest pressing into them. She didn't let go until he had bitten her hard as he roared and she cried and whispered for him to keep going.

"Can you walk?" he asked, smoothing one hand down her side, the first affectionate caress he had given her.

"I don't know," she moaned, feeling the need to go to the bathroom even more, but not wanting to move from under his heat and lose the feeling of his cock from between her legs. "Don't want to try," she added.

"Oh?"

"Like the feel of you," she said, nipping his ear and getting long black hair between her lips. She liked that, too.

"You like cock," he said, smiling against her neck. "You just want me to fuck you again."

Hermione nodded. "True." She winced when she moved her left leg a little.

"Do you need a healing potion?" he asked, now a somewhat concerned for her well-being.

"Mm. No. I like being sore from getting fucked hard," she said. He lifted his head and whispered to the candle on the bedside. "I liked being sore from getting fucked hard when I was seven, too. I liked getting fucked. I didn't like getting beaten or having my throat so raw it bled or being unable to take a proper shite. It wasn't the fucking that made me hurt, then. It was the abuse."

"Fucking a seven-year-old is abuse," Snape replied, snorting lightly.

Hermione shrugged. She had her own continuum of abuse, and she was allowed to think whatever she wanted about it. Relatively speaking, she had liked being fucked, if liking something that she hated - and she had hated all of it, then, really, especially what she now knew to be the man's tiny cock - could be considered liking. "That was the only part I liked. That and when he played with my clit. After I put him in a coma, though, I didn't want it. I don't exactly want it now, but I like the way you feel when you fuck me. It hurts, but in a good way. I'm so sore, probably bruised, but it feels so good..."

"I like fucking you," he admitted. "Making you bruise, keeping you sore here," his fingers slid between her legs and she shuddered as he dipped inside her. "Listening to you whimper for me, wanting it more the longer I go." He moved up off from her then, but stayed over her. "Go get cleaned up."

"Don't want to move," Hermione protested.

"I want to watch you walk to the bathroom," Snape said, looking down into her eyes. She was human for now, but the hold was tenuous. "I want to see how much you ache. Are you bruised?"

"Yes." She smiled at him then. "You feel so good inside." She wriggled to the side, sliding from under him and wincing as each movement made muscles and joints ache. When she stood, her legs didn't want to close and her hips hurt and her knees were weak. She managed to walk toward the bathroom, hips swaying and legs wide apart to keep the bruised and tender flesh from getting too much contact. When she reached the door of the bathroom, she turned back to him.

"How often will you fuck me?" she asked. Her eyes slid over his body in the light. He looked better in clothes, but he felt better naked.

"Every day," he replied, watching her carefully. She looked better naked, but felt better wearing him. He liked the bruises on her honey-coloured skin. He liked the way she was walking, so carefully, so slowly. "Even when you bleed," he added softly.

Hermione nodded.

"Good." With that, she disappeared into the bathroom. Snape smiled as the door didn't close behind her. He gave her five minutes to get in the shower and walked into the bathroom, feeling sated in a way he hadn't gotten to experience in years. The dark urges were gone for the moment, his body felt well-used, his back ached from the effort of pumping into his wife, and his genitals were tender from the unusual activity.

After using the toilet and watching as Hermione wet down her body and her hair, he stepped into the shower with her.

"So we get married and you get to shower with me?" she asked, eyebrows high with something other than rage.

"Witch," Severus hissed softly, gripping the hair at the back of her neck in his fist and pulling her close, "I won't willingly let you out of my sight."

Hermione smiled. Her eyelids dropped. She pressed against him, her warm, wet body sliding against his skin. His eyes closed as she whispered in her ear, "I don't want to be out of your sight." She pressed her lips to his jaw. "I want to be in your bed." Little kisses up the side of his jaw as she spoke. "Surrounded by you. Filled up with you. Fucking you." She was at his ear now. She hissed into it, "And I want to kill them." She bit his earlobe.

Severus snarled and jerked her head back.

He smiled. His eyes gleamed in the light of the bathroom. "Such a sweet little Gryffindor," he murmured, "wanting to fuck her Potions Master." He pulled her up on tiptoe, noses nearly touching. "Do you have a particular curse in mind?" Before she could answer, he kissed her.

Once his lips touched hers, once her mouth opened under his, curses and Death were unimportant.

Severus felt the kiss, felt her body against his, felt their magic pulling them even tighter together.

So beautifully hurt, this witch in his arms. So perfectly, beautifully broken. So completely his.

If she'd been wrapped in green and silver ribbon, he would have made it a point to thank Santa Claus for his prezzie.

She'd been wrapped in rage and betrayal so deep that she had been tied up with Dark.

Who could blame a man of equal parts Light and Dark for unwrapping such a delicious gift?

When Dumbledore returned to the castle, he would find out...


End file.
